


A Recollection

by mercurymoon7490195



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Flashbacks, Gen, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Present Tense, episode 24: the feast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 04:50:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10757055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercurymoon7490195/pseuds/mercurymoon7490195
Summary: The feast in Emon was not the first time he had dined with the Briarwoods.





	A Recollection

“What you need to see is the Wildmount fashion district, it is _divine._ ”

Percy stares across his plate, gazing past the half-eaten food.

He's been here before.

The Briarwoods’ voices drift over the table and for a moment, he is five years younger, the fire crackling behind him as he picks at his dinner.

His mother and father sit at the head of the table, listening intently to the picture Lady Briarwood paints of the shopping and culture of Wildmount. Julius feigns interest, as usual. Vesper leans forward, enthralled. Whitney and Oliver exchange twin smiles, and he can already sense the plan to beg their parents for an excursion to Wildmount before the year's end, one that he’s sure he’ll be dragged into plotting by the morning. Ludwig and Cassandra sit beside him, half listening, quiet.

And Percy, Percy himself is ungodly, profoundly, _endlessly_ bored. He has work to be doing, projects almost finished that aren’t getting done with him stuck at another ridiculous banquet. He should be used to it by now, he thinks bitterly, nudging his vegetables across his plate with his fork. The same dull conversations, the same expectations to sit quietly and keep his focus on showing their visitors the finest in what mother calls 'Whitestone Hospitality.'

But instead his mind keeps drifting upstairs, to his tools and his workbench, where he only has Cassandra’s present left. He’ll need to finish the model tonight if he wants to have everything done by Winter’s Crest--  

\--And now his heart starts to race in the knowledge that this thought was the last he can remember from his old life, the last because now Lord Briarwood stands and raises his glass in a toast and this the point where it starts, the chaos and the screaming and the blood; the darkness and the dungeon and Ripley and _Ripley_ and **_Ripley_** _\--_

\--Flashes of questions he doesn't understand. Flashes of bodies, slumped, piled in the cells around him. Of Cassandra, _Cassandra,_ somehow free of her chains, freeing him from his.

He runs, breathless, feet slapping against stone, against frozen ground and snow.

Shouts, footfalls echo behind him, darkness clouding his vision as he hears the bowstrings tense; he braces himself for what he knows comes after.

The

       Thud

                  Thud

                             Thud.   

The scream.

The fall.

 

He keeps running.

 

“--Does anyone want any _dessert?_ ”

    Grog’s voice snaps him back to the present, and as the great hall shifts back into focus, he prays that his face has stayed its usual mask of indifference, hidden behind Vax’s features.

His knuckles are white as he uncurls his fists under the table and smoothly reaches over to accept the dish Tiberius presses into his hands.

“Thank you.” His voice is quiet as he forces himself to take a deep breath, to steady his hand as he picks up the spoon and focuses on his creme brulée.

He tastes none of it.

 _Soon,_ a voice whispers in the back of his mind. _Soon._


End file.
